


It's Always Darkest

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Beth Lives, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Late at Night, Light Dom/sub, Non-Sexual Intimacy, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7193318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth's first night in Alexandria is haunted by what it took her to get there. Daryl offers himself as comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Always Darkest

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://dirtybethyl.tumblr.com/post/144344884469) gifset.

****If Beth hadn't been keeping one ear open when she slept every night for the past so many months, she might not have heard the knock on her door. And even so, it's soft; soft enough that she shouldn't be expected to hear it, that she wonders whether he wants her to answer at all. Or maybe he just doesn't want to disturb her sleep.

Sleep. How does anyone think she could sleep?

She stares at the door from where she lies, curled up with only her lower half beneath the blankets. It's summer and she shouldn't be using sheets at all—her skin feels sticky from the hours she's spent tossing and turning, the mattress bouncy enough that each movement would shoot adrenaline down her spine; but this is the first bed she's slept in since the farm. The first in... she doesn't know how many years. She doesn't want to think about them, or about her old life, but at home she always slept with a blanket even in the height of summer, and it feels wrong to do differently here.

It isn't dark in her room but it's bright in the hall and she can see the shadow of his feet lingering outside the door. She wonders if he's wearing boots or not. She thinks she only saw him walking around without boots once, as the sky poured buckets and they listened to it pounding against the tin roof they had found shelter beneath after running for miles. He built a small fire, barely more flame than a candle, but he forced her to sit close to it as he turned their packs inside out looking for dry clothing. He found enough for her but only socks for him, and he turned away while she changed and when he turned back he was wearing those socks—good for exactly this purpose, thick wool that must have once sat on the shelves of some sporting goods store. She remembers thinking how strange he looked as he walked over to her, gait slightly different; almost clumsy, like he'd forgotten how to walk without boots on his feet. But he sat next to her and he didn't say anything when she started rubbing him briskly, his arms and his back, and at some point his eyes closed and all she could hear from him were his shuddering breaths and the clicking of his teeth.

“Come in,” she says softly. Not much louder than the knock, but she knows he'll hear; and a few moments later the knob is turning and he slips inside, strangely serpentine for all his bulk, and then the door is closed and he's pressed against it and she looks down at his feet.

Boots. Different from the ones she last saw him in, but boots all the same.

_It's good this house has hardwood instead of carpeting_ , she thinks; _it would take forever to get blood and mud stains out of carpet._

She hears those words in her mother's voice and it frightens her because she thought she had forgotten what her mother sounded like.

“You ok?” he asks.

She doesn't know what to say so she just stares at him. After a few moments he nods, leaning back against the door like he wants to phase through it, hair scraggly and unwashed.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

He doesn't say anything and he doesn't look away from her, but she knows, just like he knew for his. Stupid question. Stupid before it even left their mouths.

She's here. Where else would he be?

And she knows that. Knows that with a certainty she didn't know she was capable of anymore. Wherever she goes from now on in this life, Daryl Dixon will follow her. Anything else isn't an option.

She knows because his hands are trembling and he's trying to hide them, sticking them behind himself as he looks at the floor, his scuffed boots, the mess of mud and blood they can't see in the dark but they know is flaking onto the wood.

“Take your shoes off,” she says.

He's looking at her now. Staring. She forgot how he could stare.

“Why?”

“Cause I want you to.”

He only hesitates one moment more before going down on one knee.

She watches silently as he takes them off, one by one; methodical, untying the laces so they won't be tangled if he has to retie them in a hurry, setting them side by side at the door. He straightens back up vertebra by vertebra, socked toes twitching like they want to wiggle, fingers picking at the threads at the hem of his shirt. He's looking everywhere but at her, cheeks flushed like she'd asked him to strip naked for her, not just remove his shoes. Like he's standing in front of her in nothing but his own scarred skin and corded muscle, the softness of his stomach that she remembers from resting on it one night when they were too tired to care about propriety, even about keeping watch.

She never expected to find any softness in him; knew how he looked for Sophia, knew how he cared about them all, but she never _knew_. And now he's nothing but softness, the light filtering in from the window giving him a hazy glow like the moon covered by clouds, the strips of light around the door behind him throwing even that glow into shadow. But she sees enough of him to know he has no idea what he's doing. She doesn't either, but he doesn't know that.

“Come here,” she says.

She watches, legs still curled in the sheets, torso up and leaning on one elbow as he obeys her, walking like she remembers but somehow more tethered to the Earth; like something's made his body heavier, his weight a burden to support, and she struggles to keep the tears trapped in her throat as he comes to stand next to the bed, hovering uncertainly, awaiting her next command.

She looks up at him, his eyes glinting in the low light. She woke like this once; alerted to the man's presence only by his mistaken step, a twig broken, and she'd woken like a shot to find him hovering over her where she lay prone on the forest floor, head balanced on the pack containing everything she owned. She didn't know if he was there to steal from her or rape her or kill her or do all three; it didn't matter, because before he could even open his mouth she had shot a bullet between his eyes and scrambled to her knees so she could check his pockets and leave before the walkers came.

She doesn't realize she's reached out to touch Daryl until he flinches, and she looks at the hand she's rested on his hip. It could have been him that night. It could have been him elated to find her, creeping close so she isn't startled, making a mistake in that last moment when he sees the moon slash across her face, the blade she took from him tucked in her belt.

It could have been him and it wouldn't have mattered. If it were him he'd be dead.

She doesn't realize she's crying until she feels his hand on the back of her head, urging her forward until she meets his soft stomach; and slowly he sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling her pillow out from under her and laying it across his lap, guiding her head down until her face is pressed into him again and both of her hands can take hold of the fabric of his shirt, tightening until they cramp. She cries and his hand stays on the back of her head, running back and forth across her skull like they did sometimes on watch at night while she drifted off against his thigh. It only makes her cry harder.

She must be louder than she thinks because a few minutes later light explodes behind her eyelids as the door open again. She freezes and Daryl mumbles a few words and the light is gone, but suddenly somehow so are her tears. She rolls until she can look up at him, looming above her and yet looking utterly ordinary. It's a sight she's seen dozens of times, after all; Daryl watching over her.

He looks down at her in the dark. At this angle his face is completely in shadow. His hand doesn't stop moving on her hair but the rest of him has frozen, drawn tight as he waits for her to say...

She doesn't think he even knows what to hope for anymore.

“Stay with me.”

It's too weak, she thinks; thin and broken like a china doll with a string coming out of her back, frayed and nearly snapped with long use. It could be thought of as a question; he might think it's a question and if it's a question he doesn't have to do anything about it. Can do whatever he wants. Can leave her alone.

He does. He maneuvers her off his lap, pillow and all, sliding her back into proper sleeping position. Her tears start up again silently at how tenderly he moves her, turn into a shudder when his hand draws down her arm, fingertips lingering against her knuckles. Then he's up and he's gone.

Beth breathes in deep and squeezes her eyes shut, lets the breath out slowly, clutches the pillow beneath her head. Her stomach is clenching like it does when she feels that emptiness inside her; the echoed words of a long ago call, _I want to die, I want to die, I want to die_ , vibrating within her skull. She wants to die just to stop this moment, this horrible moment as she waits for the door to open and for him to vanish.

She nearly leaps out of her skin when the other side of the bed dips; barely keeps her cheek planted against the pillow as he shuffles his way towards the middle, towards her, wraps an arm around her and presses his hand to her stomach and all at once it unclenches and her mind is quiet. She breathes out quick and harsh as he maneuvers himself, tucking his throat around the knob of her spine, pressing in on her stomach again as he curls his legs to slot against hers. Her heart is pounding and she's sure he can feel it through her back but he doesn't comment on it; just rubs his nose a few times against her hair, sighs out softly like this is something he's been wanting too.

She covers his hand with hers. Moves it up to tuck under her chin, hold it close with both hands. His knuckles curl against her throat and there too she's sure he feels her heart.

“Sleep,” he rumbles.

She does as he commands.

 


End file.
